


The Targaryen Wolf

by OneFrustratedWriterPerson



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 17:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12194307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneFrustratedWriterPerson/pseuds/OneFrustratedWriterPerson
Summary: The winds blew wild as she journeyed to the cliff overlooking the seas. She stood there, her cloak fanning behind her, staring at the sunset on the horizon; swirls of orange and rose, clashing against the dark hues of storm clouds—flame come to life, she thought.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Daenerys

 ***

 

Storm clouds loomed in the horizon as her two remaining children soared through the dark skies. It was poetic in a way, the heavens mourning the same as she did, angry at the lost of such a majestic creature.  

She didn't believe it at first, none of them did. All anyone could do then was watch as her sweet Viserion bled and crashed through the lake. And Jon, brave and stupid Jon, yelling—ordering them to go and leave him behind. Her heart all but caved at that moment, seeing him fall through the ice and looking back to witness the Others swarming towards them. She remembered the painful bite of the cold winds as she stared out from the Wall, willing them to come back. _A bit longer_ , she said—she’d wait forever if she had to. But the light was fading fast, and their mission was far from over.  

She never could’ve foretold that the sound of a simple horn could be as sweet and lovely as her children’s voices. How its bellow could make her heart quicken and hope spring forth so abruptly and so fully. She barely had enough time to hide in her chambers before the tears came, unforgiving and unrelenting as the horrid scenes and bitter relief flooded her again and again. 

None of that mattered now, she supposed, none of it could with what they were able to do just a few weeks hence. The excursion to King’s Landing proved useful, with many of the Southron lords agreeing to send their men north to fight the Night King’s undead army. Surprising though as Cersei’s concession to the armistice and call for men was, most of them knew it was but one step of many to ensure victory against the Long Night. Daenerys, for all that she suffered, knew better than to trust the words of a woman such as Cersei Lannister, nor any other ambitious lord, but she had little choice. Winter has come, and the dead marched on. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” Daenarys worried eyes turn to Missandei. “A raven has arrived from Winterfell. The Unsullied have arrived. Lord Snow has begun to send men to Last Hearth and the northernmost territories of the region.” 

Lord Snow. Jon. How can a simple name, after everything that’s happened, consume her soul with warmth, a quiet burning of deep affection and desire, one she’d long thought incapable of feeling. The nights they’d spent together, as they sailed from King’s Landing back to Dragonstone, were seared into her heart, making her ache for a different life, away from cunning men and talk of birthrights, one where he wasn’t King in the North and she wasn't the Mad King’s daughter.  

He was just Jon to her now. And the look on his face whenever she called him thus was enough to make her forget everything else. 

It was Jon who finally convinced her to send the Unsullied north. They had made love that night, sheltered in each other’s embrace long enough for the early signs of dawn to bleed through the windows. He held her with such reverence, worshipped her like no other man before him. 

_I must leave for Winterfell alone,_ he said, brushing a stray lock of silver hair from her face. She was about to protest but was cut off by a tender kiss. _The Night King cannot be allowed to journey south, Dany. I can’t let that happen, not when you’re here._ His gray eyes implored her to understand. Her eyes water at what he doesn't say. 

_I told you we’ll defeat him together, Jon. I cannot fight him from Dragonstone._

His arms tightened around her. _Dany, please, I can’t risk you or any of your children again. You don’t know how much I regret—I can’t._

The agony in his voice, the desperation, made her pull back far enough to grasp his face in her hands. _Stop it. None of it was your fault, Jon. None of it. There was nothing you could’ve done. I had to know. We had to—_ Jon’s frantic kisses and dextrous hands silenced her once more. She’d lost count of how many times she peaked before succumbing to sleep in his arms.

After, as they stood side by side at the ship’s bow, staring outwards into the sea, a compromisewas made: Jon Snow was to return north to command the armies, while Daenerys and her dragons remained in Dragonstone until a better understanding of the Night King’s army and their strategies was to be had.

“I am worried, Your Grace.” Missandei’s hushed tone snapped her out of her reverie.

“Worried? Did something happen? Did Jo—” Her hand reached out and grasped the back of her chair. The lone wolf marker taunted her from across the carved table. _Too far_ , she thought. _Too far away from me._

“No, Your Grace. I am worried for you.” 

Daenerys turned to her then, brows curled with confusion. “Me?”

“Forgive me, but you’ve hardly eaten anything in the past few days. Is the food not to your liking? If so, I can discuss the matter with the kitchens—” The sincerity of her voice calmed Daenerys’ troubled mind. 

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Your Grace, you have not been yourself lately. As your friend and advisor, I am concerned for you.” _A true friend indeed_ , she thought.

“I appreciate your concern, but it is misplaced. I am well; tired perhaps, but well.”

Her Hand entered the war room with Lord Varys. A small pang coursed through her at the thought of her fallen allies. Ellaria Sand presumed dead after being captured by the Lannisters. Yara Greyjoy ambushed by her scum of an uncle. And Lady Olenna, the loss which affected her the most, poisoned in her own home—the death of a great house, the death of a far greater woman.

“Apologies for the slight tardiness, Your Grace. We have just received correspondence from a number of Southron lords.” Everyone settled down for the long discussion. Tyrion with a goblet of Essosi wine already in his hands.

“And?” She beckoned, ignoring the way her stomach rolled at the sight.

“Their men march north as we speak. Over twenty thousand men approaching Greywater Watch.” Lord Varys interjected, pulling out several scrolls from his robes. He added, “Lord Howland Reed will be meeting them. He brings three thousand with him.” 

“Is that enough?” She questioned, wary of keeping her growing unease hidden, “what word from King’s Landing?” 

The way Tyrion’s eyes cowered from her gaze was enough. She felt ire rise within her. _Damn that lion bitch._ “We have not heard anything from King’s Landing, Your Grace.” 

The cool breeze and the warm hearth did nothing to staunch her displeasure. She swallowed past clenched teeth, hands gripping the sides of her chair, “it comes as no surprise, I suppose.”  

“My Queen, I am confident they will answer our call. Jaime won’t let—” Daenerys pointed look stops his defense. She has grown quite tired of her Hand making excuses for his brother.

“We must send a raven to Winterfell. Let them know of the men that march north.” She pushed to stand, wanting to be closer to the fire. “We must ensure that—” Her words trail off as her step faltered, body swaying with the sudden urge to rest her eyes. Distantly, she heard them shout for her in shock and fear. Lithe hands wrapped around her arms, preventing her from collapse. Missandei’s panicked eyes stare at her own, before aiding her back to her seat. Tyrion yelled for the Maester.

Fearful as the situation seemed, the horrid sensation was gone as quickly as it came. Daenerys could only reassure her council, futile as it was, that she was already feeling better. 

“Your Grace, the Maester is on his way.” 

He arrived without much fanfare, quickly approaching his queen with calm urgency. She held up her hand, signaling him to wait, before addressing the rest of room, “leave us.” 

Everyone looked to object, her dearest friend most of all, but she cut them off, leaving no room for argument. “I shall call for you after.”

As soon as they were alone, she tilted her head at the Maester kindly. He bowed in deference to her before proceeding with his examination. 

For a while, he worked in silence, gently checking her temperature and the strength of her heart. He had asked her a few questions and she had no choice but to tell him of her recent ailments. A perplexed look crosses his features. What he said next surprised her.

“If I may ask, Your Grace, when was your last moon blood?”

Dismissing the sudden heaviness in her heart, she feigned ignorance, “I do not remember.” Holding back a curse, she forced herself to be patient. He knew not of her horrid past. “What does that have to do with anything?”

She was met by silence as he diligently jotted down her words. At a distance, she heard both Drogon and Rhaegal huff in frustration, as if their mother’s worries were their own.

“Maester?”

He tilted his head in apology, before setting down his scroll. The knowing look in his eyes made her stomach churn. He knew what was wrong with her.

“I believe you are with child, My Queen.”

All blood drained from her face. _How dare he—_ “That’s…that’s impossible.”

“The signs are true, Your Grace. It is quite early in the pregnancy, but unmistakable nonetheless.”

_Unmistakable_. She didn’t understand. Not at first.

She knew such a man had no reason to lie, to jest about something as important as this, but his words seemed to hover above her like an executioner’s blade. 

The memory of her first child, of the stallion destined to mount the world, and Viserion, her sweet, golden dragon, taken from her so cruelly, wrung her anguished heart. _How_ —

Only death can pay for life.

_Is that it, s_ he thought hysterically, _were their deaths payment for the future of my reign, the chance of bearing another child?_

Her mind battled to explain, to make sense of the impossible. _Gods. Have I been made a fool for so long? Suffered so uselessly for a lie that haunted me so?_

The hearth seemed to brighten as she struggled not to weep, emotions swirling within her breast—the grief of losing her children, the rage of a woman scorned, the disbelief, and—

_Could it be true?_

“Is there anything I can help—” 

_No,_ her mind roared, holding on to the last of her strength. 

“That would be all. Thank you.” With a swift nod, she walked past him, “let this stay between us for now. I will be the one to tell my council.” 

She yanked the door open and continued her way, deaf to the pleas that trail after her. 

The winds blew wild as she journeyed to the cliff overlooking the seas. She stood there, her cloak fanning behind her, staring at the sunset on the horizon; swirls of orange and rose, clashing against the dark hues of storm clouds— _flame come to life_ , she thought, like the soft glow of the candle beside their bed, the rare smiles he would give her just before they slept.

_I command you to come back to me, Jon Snow._

She has not seen him in weeks, hasn’t held him in her arms and kissed his lips since he sailed to White Harbor with her armies. 

_Aye, Your Grace. How can I not? My heart is here._

They’ve never talked about marriage. There was never time for such things. Finding each other now, amidst everything, was nothing short of a miracle—a gift neither of them was keen to waste. 

“You had us worried, Your Grace.”

Her gaze at the angry tides did not waver. “All is well. I just needed a moment to myself.”

“Whatever it is, I am confident we will overcome it.” Tyrion's voice was solemn, attempting to put her at ease despite not knowing. “You are not alone, Daenerys.” 

The sob she let out made him turn in alarm. Not once had she cried openly before him.

“I know.” She whispered, her words almost lost to the winds. 

They stood in silence, neither unwilling to leave the other. Daenerys watched longingly as a flock of white birds soared bravely through the skies.

“I am with child.” 

Her Hand said nothing, but the look in his eyes reflected the bitter realization that had plagued her since that fateful moment.

Her rational mind cursed her naiveté. How many times had she let herself hope only to suffer for it? 

And yet she could not stop herself from imagining a babe with dark hair and violet eyes, sleeping contently against her bosom; couldn’t help but hear his sweet laugh as she chased after him. 

She was terrified to hope, and yet it burned within her, refusing to cower in the face of the long battle ahead.

_Please,_ she begged the gods, though she knew not who she was praying to, _please let it be true._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this before Episode 7 aired, hence the deviation in the plot. I am, however, still very pleased with how both turned out--the series and this short story. Jon and Dany, or Jonerys if you will, has always been the endgame for me since Season 1. Believe in your dreams, kids.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed as much as I did in making it. I wish you all good fortune in the wars to come.


	2. Chapter 2

Jon

***

 

_You don’t have to choose._

He could laugh at the absurdity of it all, but his mirth seemed to have left him upon hearing the truth from his brother—cousin. 

_She made him promise_ , Bran said; made his father—uncle promise to keep him safe, hide him away in the North from ambitious lions and blood-craved stags. A part of him even understood, truly did; knew without a smidgen of doubt that his fa—uncle loved him as his own. _I owe him my life,_ he cried, _but how could he not have told me?_ Saved him from the torment of not knowing who his mother was, lost in the imaginings of a hopeful boy who wanted nothing more than to be a Stark—

How he longed for the days before his story unfurled, before all the horrors he witnessed; to be back in the home he remembered, playing with his bro—cousins—with all the innocence and joy in the world. His heart rebelled against his chest; these were his most treasured memories; the past he held on to when nights were cruelest, standing alone on top of the Wall, fighting half-dead on the battlefield. _Were they all lies then_ , his hands digging into the snow-covered parapet. _It couldn’t have been. I loved them. I loved them true. Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and little Rickon. They are my brothers and sisters. I do not—could not see them as anything else._ His eyes turned towards the grey sky. _And Lord Stark—_ tears broke free as he sobbed. 

_You may not have my name, but you have my blood._

Blood of the First Men. Stark. From his lady mother— _Lyanna_ —taken from this world before he could remember the sweet sound of her voice, the warmth of her embrace. _She did love me; both of them did, her and my true father,_ he drew a ragged breath, _Rhaegar Targaryen._ The Dragon Prince, an enigma so unknown to him. The North remembers, and they had little love for such a man—or so they were made to believe. How quickly the wheel turned, a dynasty toppled by the fury of a jealous man. A kingdom brought to its knees. A rebellion built on a lie. _I know nothing._ Nothing of the silver-haired prince so beloved before his folly; nothing before that fateful tourney in Harrenhal. _Did it matter?_ The ink was dry, their chapter ended. Many had rejoiced and many suffered. 

Many suffer still.

_I am a selfish fool,_ he cursed, wiping his tears, recalling the words Maester Aemon once spoke to him. _Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Kill the boy, and let the man be born._

_I don’t have to choose._ He decided, his thoughts grew clearer with each moment. _He was the man that raised me, taught me everything I know._ He took in the stone towers of the home that had sheltered him. _Lord Stark is my father._ He paused. _Both of them are._

The winter grew colder as the days passed. Harsh were the winds that blew from the North. He stood alone on a rampart, his eyes wandering to the lands beyond the castle. At a distance, he saw men working tirelessly, digging trenches in the hard, frozen earth. Barrels of pitch were wheeled in place, hundreds—all that they could spare. 

Ghost padded towards him then, only the quiet crunch of snow signaling his presence. The sight of his dear friend loosened a knot inside him, sending warmth to his heart. A small smile broke out as the direwolf nuzzled his hand, comforting him as if to attest, _you are a wolf._ He felt himself nod in acquiescence, his throat tightening with emotion as he stroked his fur. 

“I am wolf,” he conceded, his voice scratched raw. Staring into his piercing red eyes, the urge to share his secret came suddenly and Jon knew his oldest companion deserved to know, “and I am a dragon.” 

Ghost did nothing but huff at him, as if proud of his admission—of his strength. It made him laugh, the sound so foreign to his own ears. In his mind, he saw his dire wolf as a young pup once more, running on short legs to follow him wherever he went; he thought of the nights they’ve kept each other warm, the battles they’ve faced together—the wars still to come.

“Are you with me, boy?” His voice turned somber, eyes going back to the men laboring below. The wolf stood resolutely beside him. There was no ounce of doubt, no moment of uncertainty. They would face the Long Night together.

_I know what I must do._ The wild beat of his heart rung loudly in his ears, drowning out the howling winds. _Jon or Aegon. Snow or Targaryen. It matters not. Not when the dead are here._

He had often wondered why the Lord of Light brought him back, pondered endlessly on what he did to deserve such fate. Now he knew. Now he understood. 

“Your Grace,” two castle guards called out to him, keeping their distance, obviously wary of the wolf that stood beside him, “the Kingslayer has arrived.”

Quickly making his way to the courtyard, he felt his relief turned sour as he took in the scene. His siblings stood together; Sansa and Arya barely hiding their contempt, while Bran looked on, unmoved by the newcomers. Ser Davos walked beside him, quietly informing him of situation. Sharp ire rose without warning, his hand twitched towards the hilt of his sword. Swallowing back his anger, he turned to his guests, eyes casting judgment. 

Ser Jamie kneeled before him, his sword unsheathed, digging into the frozen earth. “Your Grace.”

“It seems words are wind in the South, Ser Jaime, or does the Lannister army not have more than five hundred men?”

He did not meet his wrath nor did he rise, keeping his head bowed as he exposed the bitter truth, “The Queen betrayed us all, but I am here to honor my oath, Your Grace, even if my sister does not. The men I bring are ready to fight for the living. I beg you not to dismiss that.”

“You expect us to believe your intentions after everything you’ve done? After everything you let happen?” Sansa’s words cut like ice. The Kingslayer flinched from where he knelt. 

“I do not deny my sins. They are numerous and unforgivable, I know. Redemption is not what I seek—my life was forfeit that moment I stabbed the Mad King—but I implore you, with what little honor I have left, to let me and these brave men fight alongside you against the dead.”

“You killed our father,” Arya stepped forward, needle glinting at her side; worried eyes tracked her movements, “our mother, our brothers, our direwolves. You have no right to ask for anything.” Everyone held their breath as the She-Wolf approached the knight. Jon had a mind to call out to his sister, but his own thirst for justice made him reluctant to do so. 

It was Bran who broke the tension, “He tells the truth. He abandoned King’s Landing to fight with us.” He looked pointedly at his sister, silently telling her to step away. “We need him.”

“Your Grace, if I may,” Brienne interjected, eager to support her friend, “Ser Jaime has done many horrible things—it’s true—but I’ve seen him change for the better. He is a good man, Your Grace, and a far better commander. He can lead your armies to victory if you let him.” 

“And if he betrays us, Lady Brienne, what then?” Sansa questioned her sworn shield, her blue eyes reflecting the coldness in her heart. 

“My lady, Your Grace, I have no reason to think Ser Jaime will break his word.” At the sight of their skepticism, she appealed, “but if you would allow it, I shall be responsible for him and his men. Should they ever betray the North, I myself shall wield the sword that delivers justice.” 

“There’s no need, Lady Brienne.” Jon addressed the Lady Knight, before looking down at the Mad Queen’s twin, “My brother said we have need of you. I do not doubt his words. We need all abled men to fight against the Night King. But,” he stalked forward, stopping beside his sister, "betray us, Ser Jaime, and I shall kill you myself.”

Jaime took the threat for what it was. There would be no second chances for him here. The knight bowed his head again in acceptance. 

The King motioned to the guards, “call all the lords and commanders to the Great Hall. We have much to discuss.” He would hear from his both of his sisters that evening, he was sure, but now was not the time for such things. 

Gods, he was tired; tired of all the fighting, of the lies and the game everyone else but him wanted to play. He never wanted to be King or Lord Commander, never wanted to rule or have a seat at the Lord’s table. All he wanted was to live out his days with purpose and honor, just like what Lord St—his father taught him. He sighed, feeling the weight on his shoulders press heavier. 

Cries of betrayal and resentment echoed as he entered the hall, which he hushed with a wave of his hand. “My lords, now is not the time to fight amongst ourselves,” he petitioned, “the dead will not care who fights against them, only that we must be conquered. We cannot let them win.”

Lyanna Mormont stood, displeasure and determination marring her young face. She nodded to him once before addressing the rest of them, “aye. I am not happy with welcoming lions into our fold—same as you, but the King is right. We defend our home before anything else!”

Jon had long since respected her strength and it gladdened him to have her as one of his most loyal supporters. He had moved to speak again, but the door burst open, a castle guard rushing to his side, “Your Grace!” Dread pierced his heart at his frantic tone. “An urgent raven from Last Hearth.”

He heard the rest cry out in worry, looking at each other in distress. The hall grew colder as the scroll was handed to him, the roaring hearth unable to counter it. Jon swallowed back bile as he read the news, feeling himself tremble as he did.

“Eastwatch has fallen.”

A beat of stillness was broken with shouts of disbelief and panic.

“Your Grace, it is impossible! The Wall couldn’t have fallen!”

“The dead are coming—”

“We must act before all is lost!”

“The Wall has stood for a thousand years! It cannot be!”

“We need to march North now!”

Overwhelmed, Jon chose to ignore their remarks and turned instead to the learned man standing to his right. 

“Maester Wolkan, send our fastest ravens to Last Hearth, Karhold, and Castle Black immediately. Tell them to fortify their defenses as much as they can, that we are to send them reinforcements and more dragonglass. Those who cannot fight must flea south—we cannot let them strengthen our enemy by adding to their numbers.” The Maester bowed his head before rushing to fulfill his orders.

“How? It doesn’t make any sense—how were they able to breach the Wall?” Sansa’s voice faltered, her cold front cracking to reveal her growing dismay; even Arya seemed restless at the thought.

He closed his eyes tightly, his agony bleeding through when he revealed, “He raised a dragon.” 

All the lords went silent in stupor. No one dared breathe in fear. “One of the Queen’s dragons died when she came to rescue us from beyond the Wall. We tried to bring a wight to King’s Landing as proof—to call men to arms,” the grim look he sent to the Kingslayer spoke of his regret and deep sorrow, “it was a fool’s errand.”

“What hope do we have against a dragon?” One lamented; others follow his outburst. Hopelessness threatened to drown out all sense. Jon had barely gathered himself before he addressed them again.

“My lords, the Great War is here. It is time to act, to cast aside our enmities and band together against the Dead.” His unwavering gaze scanned the Hall, trying to rally their spirits. “We shall march on the morrow at first light to stop them once and for all—for the safety of our homes, our families. My lords, will you stand by me now? Will you fight for the North?”

“Aye!” They howled, standing to their feet, swords unsheathed. “For the North!” 

_For the North! For the North! For the North!_

Jon stood tall amongst his men, face set in grim determination as they chanted. He turned to his sisters, seeing their steely expressions mirroring his own. _For my family,_ he added. There would be no sacrifice too great—no price he was unwilling to pay. _For them._

He will not let the Night King conquer this realm.

_For her._

***

That evening, he sat in front of the fire, a moment of rare solitude in his chambers. Ghost laid by his feet, his massive body almost blocking the hearth’s warmth. He stared into the flames as if seeking guidance or answers to questions that plagued him. 

_This could very well be my last night_ , he thought, his heart suddenly full of deep longing for that island across the sea.

How cruel the gods were for letting him taste heaven only to take it away so soon. 

He missed her; missed her with a force that overwhelmed him. Many times had he found himself yearning to sail back to Dragonstone and gather her in his arms. Many times had he imagined stealing her away to a distant land, to a house with a red door and its own lemon tree, safe from the horrors beyond the Wall.

_A fool’s dream_ , he lamented. What future awaited him but that of war and gore?

_Come back to me._

He had promised her. By gods, he wanted nothing more than to keep his word; to greet her with open arms as she arrives at Winterfell, victorious over the Long Night. 

A sharp knock pulled him from his thoughts. Arya entered, wordlessly asking his permission, before shutting the door behind her. She settled on the chair across him, ruffling Ghost’s thick fur with affection as she did.

They just sat there, content to let each other’s presence soothe their worries even if only for a time.

“Do you wish to die, brother?” Stunned, he turned to her, took in the serious frown on her face, and pondered on the meaning of her question. Ser Davos’ words echoed at the back of his mind.

_You can’t lead a raid beyond the Wall._

Did they think him thoughtless, acting so careless with his own life? The things he’s done—he could spend years trying to make them see, and he had already failed in more ways than one. He sighed, choosing to answer her without dispute, “no.”

“Then shouldn’t you wait for the Dragon Queen before heading north?”

“We need to do something now, Arya,” he argued, “it will take days for our ravens to reach her, days more to travel from Dragonstone. No one expected—” he caught himself before revealing too much; how heavy Viserion’s death haunted him so, the pain he caused its mother. “Perhaps it is better this way. Her dragons can guard Winterfell better than any army.” 

“You talk as if you’ve already lost.” 

“No, I—the odds are against us, ’tis true, but I know we can defeat him. I know it.” The fire in his grey eyes flared with fervor, but they dimmed all too soon as his head fell back to stare at nothing. 

“I’ve already died once, little sister.” He confessed. She almost didn’t hear him. “I don’t think I would be as lucky a second time.”

She had heard the stories, of course, unbelievable like the ones they used to listen to growing up—how he let Wildlings past the Wall to save them from the Others, how his sworn brothers branded him a traitor before stabbing him again and again like some wild animal. They left him to die in the snow. And he did. Dead for days before the Red Priestess managed to bring him back. _The Undead_ , they whispered in fear and awe.

Her fingers itched towards her weapon. _How dare they._

Jon, noticing her turmoil, reached for her hand, holding it tightly in his. Sad eyes calmed her anger. She couldn’t let him succumb to despair, as familiar the feeling was to her own heart. He was her family, no matter what secret lies in his blood—dragon and wolf. She didn’t care. 

“The pack survives.” She remembered saying the same words to Sansa, seemingly a lifetime ago. Time had an odd way of changing when the end of the world drew near, she supposed.

Her brother smiled at her, a small one, looking so much like their late father Arya had to hold back a sob. She laughed once, tearfully, as he repeated the words, “the pack survives.” 

They sat in silence once more, the crackle of fire slowly dying down. Ghost was already asleep, curled up like he always did. He knew he should rest soon, given their early march on the morrow. He stood gingerly from his seat, careful not to disturb his companion.

“I would ask a favor of you, sister.” She looked up at him, tilting her head in curiosity. “Could you give this to Queen Daenerys when she arrives?” He handed her a sealed note; the Stark emblem embossed in red wax. She took it reluctantly, eyeing the subtle light in his eyes, a brief flash of life at the sound of her name. It seemed her brother had another secret of his own.

“Do you love her, Jon?” She asked, already knowing what he’d say.

There was no hesitation in his voice, “aye.” He wouldn’t be ashamed, he decided, not now—not in front of his family.

Surprised by his sincerity, she couldn’t help but wonder, “do you not want to see her before you head off to war?” It’s what people in love did, she thought, though she was hardly knowledgeable about such things. 

Jon chose to smile at her again, his anguish plain to see.

“I fear, Arya,” his voice so soft and so honest, “if I do, I might not have the strength to leave.”

***

The sun barely graced the horizon when Jon, in full regalia, swung on top of his horse. His men waited for his command, arranged in narrow formation for the long march ahead. Ghost stood beside him, his fur blending beautifully with the snow.

He had said his goodbyes to his family, instructing them on how to handle the defenses should the worst come to pass. Sansa all but ordered him to survive, as did Arya. And Bran, in all his stoic appearance, hugged him tighter, feeling much like the brother he once had. 

_It’s beautiful in the snow_ , he thought, ignoring the sharp sorrow in his chest as he cast one final glance at his childhood home. He turned away, acknowledging his men as he rode to the front of the line, his dire wolf following closely behind.

As they rode farther and farther, he staunched the desire to look back, to steal a glimpse of Winterfell once more before it faded in the distance.

 _I’ll come back,_ he promised, trying to summon his strength, to convince himself of the fact, _I’ll come back to you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all those who commented, you precious cinnamon rolls <3
> 
> It took me a while to put this together, Med school had a way of screwing with my life plans, but fear not! I'll try to update this as soon as I can. I'm very excited to see where this goes. 
> 
> Please comment if you can! I really appreciate learning from you, guys :) Cheers!


	3. Chapter 3

Daenerys

***

 

She was tired of crying. 

More than once she wondered how many tears she had left to shed before wasting away into nothing. 

The monster took her child. He might as well have ripped her heart. 

Undead. _Enslaved._ The irony was not lost on her. How cruel the gods were indeed. 

What more could they take away from her? 

The heavy beat of her heart echoed in her ears. _No,_ she snarled, her hands clutching the flat plane of her belly. It was early yet, but she swore she’d felt a flutter once or twice before. _I’ll burn them before they hurt any of my children again._

In her rage, she stared unfeeling at the falling snow, soft and gentle, unlike the storm she braved in her rescue. 

“—the only way we can outlast the dead is if we attack them from different fronts, scatter them before they can charge together—”

It was mid-day, she knew, but the coming winter all but blocked out the warm sun. She had spent much of yesterday away from prying eyes, too lost in her grief when they’d heard the horrible news.

She’d felt useless then, wrecked by the hopelessness than swallowed her. And when she heard their plans, of Jon calling their men to arms to lead them against the Night King, she’d all but broken down. She cursed him endlessly, tearfully, _damn you, Jon Snow,_ wanting nothing more than to smack some sense into his brave, yet stupid head.

“My Queen,” Missandei called as she set a warm cup of spiced broth on the table, “something to settle your stomach.”

She nodded distractedly, mind still lost in her sorrow. Ignoring the concerned glance her Hand sent her way, she ran her fingers over the sharp edges of the painted table. Her eyes drifted to the small hill that represented King’s Landing. 

Too many enemies. Too many wars to wage. To the North. To the South. Everywhere. In her thoughts. In her dreams. Will it ever cease? Too much lost. Too many lives at stake. All she wanted was a family to call her own, to walk along these shores, basking in the sun—the world at peace. 

“—Karhold will be the first to face the dead, or Last Hearth should they journey west—”

One of her dragons wailed. _Rhaegal_. She rushed to the window in time to see her child launch himself into the grey sky, flapping his wings faster than she’d ever seen. She tried in vain to call him back, her heart hammering in her chest. _No_! _Come back!_ She couldn’t lose another child. She _refused_. But the green dragon did not listen, flying farther and farther away from the island—from her.

_North_ , she realized, her breath cutting off in panic, _he’s heading north._

_Jon._

Drogon roared after his brother but remained perched on the rocky cliff. He looked up at the castle, as if in search of something—someone. _He waits for me._

Her resolve came swiftly. “Something’s wrong,” she started, refusing to let her voice waver. “I shall fly ahead to Winterfell.”

Her Hand surged to his feet, wine spilling as his tankard clattered to the floor. “My Queen, you cannot—”

“I will wait no longer, Tyrion. The Night King cannot defeat the North. _I will not allow it.”_ She will stand aside no longer. _“_ Any word from the Unsullied, Lord Varys?”

The eunuch fiddled with his robes, pulling out a small scroll. “They march with the King of the North, My Queen. Grey Worm left half a legion behind to guard the castle.”

“The Khalasar?”

Another scroll. “They ride from the south, but the weather has not been kind. It would take them half a fortnight to reach Winter town, maybe more.”

She nodded firmly, hoping that no more argue with what must be done. “Then I shall meet them there. I leave within the hour. The rest may sail to White Harbor at first light.”

Both Missandei and Tyrion were torn by her words; yet while her handmaiden bowed her head in deference, the later became more desperate to make her see reason.

“Your Grace, I cannot advise you to go to Winterfell alone.” He appealed, eyes widening in panic.

Frustration marred her features, “I am not as defenseless as you think, My Lord.” 

“The North is not fond of Targaryens, Your Grace. They will not welcome you warmly.” Despite his bland words, his obvious concern seemed to restrain her anger. She could not fault him for wanting to keep her safe. She could not fault any of them.

“I do not expect them to,” she acknowledged, thumbing the silver ring on her hand, “to presume such a thing is unreasonable given our history, but they will see that I have come to help them.”

“They might not—”

She turned to him sharply, “I have made my decision, Tyrion.” Eyeing the rest of her council, she stood resolute, challenging. “Let this be the end of it.”

No more. She would lose no more. Years had she suffered, brutalized and tossed aside like some pawn in someone else’s game.

_They will see_ , she swore as she mounted her great Dragon moments later. His wings unfurled, stretching wide to take flight. With a mighty jolt, they cut through the air, higher and higher, until the home she’d long dreamed of faded into the distance, a lone rock surrounded by blue seas.

 ***

The night was fast approaching when she landed outside the stone walls of Winterfell; her dragon causing the earth to shake for but a moment. From a distance, she saw four figures walking towards her, some Unsullied and Northern men standing vigilantly by the gates.

“Your Grace, I am Sansa Stark,” the first among them said, her hair long and braided, its redness a beacon of fire against the snowy field, “welcome to Winterfell.”

She surveyed her company, relieved to see at least one familiar face in this unknown land. _His hair grew whiter_ , she observed, the Onion Knight tilting his head when their eyes met. She turned back to her host, voice somber. “I received your raven, My Lady. In truth, I did not think we would need to meet so soon.”

“Nor did I, Your Grace,” blue eyes reflecting the dread lurking underneath, “despite my house’ words, I had hoped we’d have more time than this.”

“Yes, the Night King…” Daenerys trailed off, chest growing tighter with the memory.

“We heard what you did for our brother,” a woman dressed in breeches stepped forward, her looks reminding her so much of Jon she wanted to sob, “the heavy price you paid. We cannot begin to repay you for bringing him back alive.”

“Apologies, Your Grace. This is my sister, Arya Stark.” Lady Sansa supplied.

_Arya,_ the sister he loved so dearly. _They have the same eyes._ “There is no debt owed, My Lady. It had to be done.”

“Nonetheless, we are grateful,” she insisted, “and I am no lady.” Dany’s brow rose at her directness. _Just like him_.

“Your Grace, you must be tired. Best we head inside before the night grows colder. We’ve prepared a warm meal and a room to use as you please.” Lady Sansa glanced past her, no doubt troubled by the ferocity and sheer size of her child.

“My dragon can hunt for himself, My Lady. Do not worry yourself.” At that, Drogon took to the skies once more, her Northern companions gaped wordlessly until he disappeared amidst the clouds. “He will stay beyond your walls as well. You have my word.”

The last of the four, a tall woman with golden hair, stepped forward, her face familiar, grey armor boasting suns and crescents. _The Lady Knight_ , Tyrion had mentioned.

“I am Brienne of Tarth, Your Grace, sworn sword to Lady Sansa and Arya Stark.” Her eyes landed on the lion hilt of her sword. _Brightroar,_ she wondered, remembering the books she grew up reading, long ago with Ser Willem and their little house in Braavos. _It can’t be—_ “Your Grace, if you would follow me.”

Nodding, she moved forward, the insecurity she had kept bottled during her journey threatened to bleed through. Surrounded by strangers, she’d wish nothing more than to have her dearest friend beside her. 

“If I may,” Ser Davos said kindly, “it’s good to see you, Your Grace.”

“And I, you, Ser Davos.” 

Once inside its stone walls, many commonfolk stood frozen as they stared in awe and suspicion. Whispers filled the air—

The Dragon Queen has come to Winterfell.

Knees bent as they passed. She knew it was more for their beloved liege than it was for her, yet she pushed on uncaringly, her eyes wandering to the snow-covered ramparts and Northern banners shifting in the wind.

“It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” _Winter was beautiful in its own way_ , she decided. “The King often spoke of how breathtaking the Godswood is.”

She saw the surprise etched on their faces, the question beneath. 

“I’d take you there if it pleases you.” Arya began.

Lady Sansa tried to intervene, “I’m sure Your Grace would prefer to rest after so long a journey—”

“Quite, My Lady,” she admitted, her body aching from the hours of flight, “but I’d love to see it before I retire.”

A guard ended their conversation, begging an audience with the Lady Stark. Wincing apologetically before heeding his hushed words, it was not long before Sansa turned back to them in regret, “forgive me, but we must attend to an urgent matter. I leave you in the care of my sister, Your Grace.” 

“None understands more than I, my Lady.” With a graceful curtsey, the Lady of Winterfell marched ahead, Lady Brienne and Sir Davos saying their goodbyes as they followed closely behind. 

She turned to the younger Stark, feeling herself relax a little bit more. Arya seemed to understand, gesturing towards a quieter path through the yard. 

“If I may, have you heard anything from your brother?” She asked, already fretting her answer.

“We’ve received a raven yesterday. It says the army is two days away from the Long Lake.” 

She held her breath. “Any word on the Dead?”

“They have not encountered any.”

The air grew colder as they walked, soft powder falling in a flurry. _Winter has come_. Grimly, her thoughts went to the thousands of dead men marching towards them, her armies, Jon—

She stopped herself. _Tears_ , she remembered, _would do nothing against my enemies._ Choosing to distract her troubled mind, a question she’d meant to ask when she first landed came rushing forth.

“I am curious, Arya,” she paused, somewhat unsure of addressing his sister without pretense, “how have you come to receive me so readily? No raven could’ve flown faster than my dragon.”

They stopped before a rusted gate. The She-Wolf kept silent as she opened the door and gestured her forward to the Godswood. _Have I offended?_ She worried. She had just crossed the threshold when Arya halted her steps with a raised hand. A pointed glance at the guards trailing her was enough for her to command them to wait by the small entrance. Arya nodded before resuming their trek to the heart of the Godswood.

Dany ignored the quick cadence of her heart. Being alone in a foreign land was not an unfamiliar concept to her, but she couldn’t help the primal response it elicited—the fear. But Jon had reassured her that she would be safe, and that was enough to allay the incoming panic. Taking a few steady breaths, she pushed through. The small curve on Arya’s lips spoke volumes of how unsubtle she was. 

Taking pity, Arya finally spoke. “Our brother,” her voice magnified by the stillness around them, “he has…visions, Your Grace, something he learnt from his time beyond the Wall.”

“Visions?”

“Yes, he can see things that have happened and things happening now. I—I don’t understand it well myself, Your Grace. I am just glad to have him back.”

_There’s magic in their blood as well._ Something stirred in her, memories that tormented her still, almost a lifetime away: the cry of a lone wolf lost in a vast desert, the scars that marred her lover’s chest. Her eyes went to the white snow beneath her feet, wondering how much of the world she has yet to understand.

Arya softly called out her name. She looked up.

The sight took her breath away. 

It was beautiful, and she said as much.

“It is,” Arya agreed, her gaze following the soft sway of its red leaves. “When we were little, Jon used to come here quite often. To get away, I think. Not everyone was particularly kind to bastards, you see,” she smiled, a sad one, “and he tends to brood like no other.”

“That he does.” She murmured, mesmerized by the face carved in its trunk, the red sap pouring out from its eyes.

“Back then, he always seemed to believe he wasn’t meant for much, didn’t deserve to be happy like everyone else…”

Dany felt her throat tighten with emotion, vision blurring with unshed tears despite her efforts. _Dammit,_ she cursed. Jon had never admitted such things to her, but his eyes conveyed more than he could. 

There were times she could see how his past haunted him.

“Thank you.”

Confused, she turned to Arya, who stared intently at the weeping eyes of the heart tree.

“For letting him love you.” She met her stunned gaze, “for loving him.”

_How_ —

“Your eyes.” Her words so soft as she recalled the night with her brother. “His were the same way when we talked about you.”

“Jon,” Daenerys started, unsure of the she-wolf’s motives, “he’s the best man I know.”

Arya nodded to herself, seemingly decided about something. A smile in her direction put her mind at ease as the not-a-lady reached inside her grey cloak.

“He asked me to give you this.”

She took the letter with shaking hands, the stark sigil pulling at her heart. 

“Thank you, My La—Arya.”

***

 

_He’s your nephew,_ Lord Bran had said. 

Aegon Targaryen, named after his murdered brother. 

How her stomach had turned when she recalled the stories, gruesome tales that kept her up at night—how the Mountain bashed little Aegon’s skull against the walls, how Rhaenys was stabbed countless times before Elia—

_Jon_. Jon was a Targaryen, hidden in a land of lions and stags, raised to be the farthest thing he truly was—a king.

The stubborn man to whom her heart belonged was her blood. 

Jon was a dragon.

_Does he know?_ She had asked, her voice breaking with the weight of such revelation.

_Your child flies to him,_ his eyes full of knowledge, _the one named after his father._

She had understood then, the truth of his words, and it took all that she had to not mount her dragon and go to him, to share in his pain, to embrace him for the gift he has given her. 

_He is my family,_ she had wept, her deepest desires come true. 

***

_You were never alone, Dany. You’ll never be alone again._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my dearest and most patient of readers. I know this took longer than I planned, but I'm really pleased it's finally here. I hope you all enjoyed reading it!


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